Capsizing the Sea
by Serena Bancroft
Summary: How miniscule changes shifted the course of the future. The clandestine life of Detective Jessica Angell if those changes had saved her life. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Descent into Darkness

**Title: **Capsizing The Sea  
><strong>Author: <strong>Serena

**Summary: **It's universally known the smallest shifts can cause the largest changes. The story we all know is that Jessica Angell was shot in the line of duty, but passed away under anesthesia at the hospital. What we do not know is that Jessica Angell refused to fade away- surviving the surgery, and what should have been a fatal bullet wound. When an opportunity for a new undercover operative presents itself, the Federal Bureau of Investigation swoops in, transforming Jessica Angell into an untraceable operative known as Sarah Vhann who is tasked with gathering evidence against a Russian crime syndicate known as The Black Hand. As the life of Jessica Angell ended, the life of Sarah Vhann was only just beginning.

**Category: **Action, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Drama

**Timeline: **In canon, just AU where Jess's life/death are concerned. Everything that happened on the show is still happening, except Jess is alive in the background, and unbeknownst to everyone.

**Ship: **Don/Jess, several others later on

**AN1:** This is a rewrite of my story which was published 2 years ago. I'd been reading over it as of late, and thinking, _wow. This was publishable_? I plan to lengthen all chapters, clean up the dialogue, deepen the plot, wind in several sub-plots, improve characters, and hopefully make it a better story as a whole. I also plan on showing a bit more of a three-dimensionality, switching points of view to fully tell the story sometimes, among other things. (I'm not sure whether or not I'll delete the original... I'm somewhat sentimental...)

**AN2: **About Jess's surgery scene, I've tried to do as much research as possible into how she could've survived this ordeal alive while making her injuries as realistic as possible. I guarantee you that I am pretty wrong on some parts, but such is fanfiction.

**AN3:** A few details are sketchy in the beginning, and a few scenes are left out (most notably, informing Jess's family that she's dead). I've done this on purpose because many of these things will appear in my version of 'Pay Up' in my Warmness on the Soul series.

**AN4:** Virtual hug for anyone who spots the mild Bones crossover.

_CHAPTER I: Descent into Darkness  
><em>

**Real loss only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself.  
>~~unknown<strong>

**Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.  
>~~<strong>**Kahlil Gibran**

**New York-Presbyterian Hospital**

**Operating Room 7 of Dr. Carla Griblam**

**8 hours into procedure  
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It took a lot to impress Dr. Carla Griblam. Her superior intellect that took her through MIT and Johns Hopkins with nothing but her own, hard-earned money from various loans and scholarships funding her education and sheer willpower could sometimes leave her feeling slightly unimpressed by the exploits of others. She had single-handedly clawed her way out from beneath the poverty line to become one of the country's best trauma surgeons, and had seen more in her 27 years as a surgeon than some saw in full careers. She was the epitome of 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps'.

But, she could safely say that she was thoroughly astounded beyond belief. Just over eight hours ago, an NYPD detective had burst through the doors of the ER, covered by the blood of the young woman in his arms. There had been no time to wait; she was bleeding out as the man set the dying woman on a gurney. As Dr. Griblam was briefed on the situation, she found herself wondering how the young woman had managed to survive as long as she had, and was considered stable enough to attempt the surgery that would most likely take her life rather than save it. While she was scrubbing in, she remembered betting the woman wouldn't last 10 minutes on the table.

The woman was struck twice with a .50 caliber weapon, once in the right shoulder, and a second time in the left abdomen. Initially, the shoulder had been her biggest concern, but Rashida, the nurse who was considered the head of the ER, had quickly ascertained that there was no bleeding in the lungs, and thus they were probably intact and functioning. After a very rushed cursory examination, the first of many lucky passes was discovered. The .50 caliber round had only connected with soft tissue of the upper right thoracic cavity. The bullet tract went straight through the shoulder, fitting almost neatly between the clavicle and coracoid process, narrowly missing both bones and the right lung. Needless to say, the shoulder wound was the least of their concerns.

Meanwhile, nearly half of her abdominal cavity was on display. A bullet of such large caliber could do so much damage. The wound the young detective received was about the equivalent of being shot at point-blank range by a sniper rifle. The wound was right on the border between the left lumbar and umbilical regions of her abdomen, but the wound was not perfectly straight as the shoulder wound had been. It appeared as though she'd turned slightly, most likely due to the fact that she was struck in the shoulder, and left her side wide open for attack. The bullet tore easily through her vital organs- her large intestine and left ovary were shredded, almost beyond repair, there were countless lacerations to her stomach and small intestine, and the bullet had finished it's journey after having torn a rather large hole in her abdominal aorta. That key artery was their biggest worry. The threat of shifting the bullet hung over their heads as they were very aware of it's position. The fact that the bullet was inside the wound it had caused was tamping off enough of the blood loss that she was still alive. Ironic, really. The thing that very nearly killed her also saved her life.

There were several other major arteries feeding blood to her vital organs that were also pulsing thick, black blood. It hadn't looked very hopeful. One of the most talented residents at the hospital was a young man named Jeffery Synova, who, much to Carla's delight wanted to become a trauma surgeon. The pair worked in tandem as though they'd been doing it for years, when in actuality, they'd been working together for barely a few months. While they worked on rerouting blood flow from several arteries and cauterizing the gaping wounds the bullet had left behind, they were beginning to medically lower her body's temperature to slow her heart rate and blood flow.

Dr. Synova had clearly wanted to remove the bullet from her abdominal aorta, worried deeply about possible damage to her spine if it shifted. "Dr. Synova, right now, that bullet is all that is keeping this girl alive on our table. As crazy as it sounds, we need to leave it in if we want to keep her alive."

Jeffery's eyes widened, but he did not take his eyes off of the electro-cauterizer he was delicately placing against the living flesh. His associate was in the middle of placing yet another tourniquet when he said, "That's against hospital policy."

Dr. Griblam did not slow her moving hands as she stated, "Which is more important, the hospital's policy or your Hippocratic Oath?" Her rhetorical question hung in the air of the ER as the two surgeons desperately moved to save the young woman's life. She'd flatlined twice already, only restarting her heart with large doses of epinephrine and vasopressin. Needless to say, her body wouldn't be able to handle many more drugs. The excessive medication could easily become more of a hindrance than a help.

Once they had a control of the majority of the blood flow coming from the sliced arteries, they turned their attention to the abdominal aorta. Dr. Griblam shuddered. It did not look good. The huge bullet was an imposing, unwelcome presence in the living cavern of her body, but it seemed to be tamping off at least some of the blood flow. It was lodged in a precariously dangerous position, nearly severing one branching renal artery, and it blocked the blood loss from two severed of four branching lumbar arteries. Again, Dr. Griblam was blown away that the woman was still alive.

As Griblam and Synova made a plan of attack, heavy blood flow shoved the bullet from the renal artery, and it now solely blocked the two damaged lumbar arteries. Black blood began to quickly fill her abdominal cavity. "Damn it," Carla cursed, voice determined, but it was obvious she was losing hope. "The bullet shifted. If the artery is fully resected, we'll need to reroute to the other renal artery. It seems more-or-less intact. We don't have time for a graft. She might lose the kidney, but she's got two and at this point we don't have a choice."

"We can revisit the graft option later if she survives," Jeffery added, hoping dearly this woman would make it. He did not like losing people on his table. Granted, no one did, but the aspiring trauma surgeon had seen the other man who brought her in. The look in the NYPD detective's eye as he gazed at his fallen colleague indicated the two were more than that. "Suction," he ordered a nurse who began to calmly remove as much of the blood as possible from her abdomen so the two surgeons could have a clear picture of the damage.

An avulsion of the distal right renal artery was as obvious as it was severe, but it was about the best thing Dr. Griblam could've seen at the moment. They could temporarily fix it, using a catheter or an angioplasty could realign the artery, and a temporary stent could be used to keep it open, all the while preventing any more blood loss from that region. Griblam looked up at one of the assisting nurses, and ordered the properly sized angioplasty and stent, which were delivered in mere moments. Griblam was always very grateful for her well-prepared surgical team. Their preparedness had saved patients on more than one occasion.

After a quick check on the two lumbar arteries, and the major laceration in which the bullet sat. It did not look good. There was the main laceration to the artery which the bullet had caused, and then there was secondary trauma to the two lumbar arteries, which were spewing a small amount of blood, but the bullet was able to hold off enough bloodflow to those two veins that she was still alive.

Again, Dr. Griblam was blown away. This patient had literally sustained enough trauma to kill three people, lost almost enough blood to fill another person, and was still vastly injured; the temporary 'band-aids' they'd applied looked like the desperate stitching trying to hold together a broken doll, because that's exactly what she was. Broken.

Jeffery easily handled the angioplasty and stent on his own while Dr. Griblam began the arduous process of trying to figure out how to remove the bullet without killing her. She'd survived eight hours, and Carla began to pray that she would survive a few more. If they could use a balloon catheter to cut off the blood supply to the wounded area, it might buy them enough time so that they could harvest a leg artery to graft in for the damaged tissue. Granted, if they cut off blood flow in the abdominal aorta for too long... Carla didn't think about it. The girl was dead if she didn't do it. At least this way she'd have a fighting chance.

She began to prepare for what she would later consider one of the biggest risks she'd ever taken in order to save a patient's life. Hell, she'd already taken several enormous risks in leaving the bullet in. What was one more?

**Two Hours Later**

"Close her up."

Dr. Carla Griblam was thoroughly satisfied. Her patient lived. Even after two more episodes of fibrillation, and one more flatline, Jessica Angell (she'd later looked up her patient's name) had survived. Carla still could not believe it. That wound was _fatal._ Utterly, completely _fatal._ The surgeon did not understand how she could have managed to survive. If she had a particularly large ego, she could say it was her superior surgical skills that saved the woman's life. But deep down, she knew it was something else. If she was devoutly religious, she could say it was the hand of God that kept her on Earth. If she was a cheesy romantic, she could say that Jessica Angell had someone very important to come back to. Since she was none of those things, she just praised the wonders of the resilience of the human body. The patient was short one ovary, and many of her vital organs seemed to be held together by children's glue and dear hope, but she was alive.

When she was preparing to removed her bloodied scrubs, a herd of suited men infiltrated the OR. "What are you doing? You can't be in here!" Carla shouted angrily. Her mind immediately thought of all the infection they could expose her patient to. Her body, quite frankly, was far too weak to deal with microscopic invaders. They were still transfusing as much O negative as they could into her, and an infection was the _last_ thing this patient needed while she was recovering from massive blood loss.

"This patient is now under the custody of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No one is to leave this room until we say so." Carla eyed the one that spoke suspiciously. He was tall and muscular was about as much as she surmised before she laid into him.

"If you could wait until she's in the ICU to recover, that'd be just peachy. We need to start warming her up _now._ She's been too cold for far too long, and unless you'd like for her internal organs, which just took me over ten hours to fix by the way, to begin to shut down, you'll let me take her to ICU."

The man seemed undeterred. "You will have to begin warming her in here. What we have to say here must never leave this room. If any of this information is told to anyone, you will all be charged with treason. Is that understood?"

Carla scowled at him, seeing as how he was blocking the doorway, and the way she saw it, her patient's recovery. She turned to her nurses, "Get as many warming blankets as you can and start pumping her with warmed IV fluids." She turned back to the man, "Unless of course she dies of septic shock because we did not get her to the ICU in time."

Again, the man did not look perturbed by her outbursts. "None of you are to inform anyone that this patient is alive." Murmurs of shock and confusion rippled throughout the team. "We are placing her under the custody of the federal government."

"So you want us to lie for you?" It was Synova who spoke this time.

Unflinching, the man met his glare with a steely gaze. Jeffery could almost feel himself wither under the oppressive glare. "Yes. This victim's time of death was at 7:08 PM. She expired from massive blood loss coupled with her internal injuries."

"What about an autopsy? This woman was shot, there was foul-play!" Carla wasn't sure why she was arguing any more. It seemed to be a lost cause, but it was her duty to protect her patient. And she'd just gone through hell trying to fix her, so she sure as hell wouldn't allow _anyone_ to just swoop in and take her away, federal government or not.

"The FBI will take care of the details. All you must report is that this victim died because her injuries were simply too great for her to handle." The woman that was Dr. Griblam was furious that she could not adequately care for her patient if they took her. The woman that was Carla was saddened that the woman's miraculous survival would never be acknowledged.

Finally backing down, knowing that the more she fought, the longer it would take for Jessica to get the care she so desperately needed after her surgery. She stepped out of the man's path with a look of reluctant resignation on her face. "I do not agree." It was as much of a concession as they would get.

Things happened quickly then. The man explained that she would be brought down to the morgue to give the appearance of death, and the FBI would obtain custody of her 'body' from the New York Police Department.

And Carla was faced with telling Jessica's family that she was dead.

**New York-Presbyterian Hospital**

**Basement Floor, Morgue**

**Early Evening**

**New York City, New York**

Dr. Sidney Hammerback stood before the covered corpse of a young woman. Her dark tresses were fanned around her head, almost as though they'd been purposely placed that way. Her face was relaxed, the result of having passed away under heavy anesthesia. He was happy she went as peacefully as possible. Her death had occurred such a short time ago, she still held most of her natural color, her lips and cheeks still a vibrant pink. It simply appeared as if she were asleep, a very eerie comparison to the truth. Sid knew it would not be long before her corpse began to lose its pallor. The rest of her was covered by a typical, blue morgue body sheet. Sid was very familiar with them. It seemed stiff, as though it was freshly starched. He could see no detail of the body that lay beneath the sheet. He supposed he could be glad about being spared the gruesome details for the moment.

In all his years as a medical examiner, he'd never been forced to autopsy someone he knew, someone he considered a dear friend. The closest he'd ever come to doing such a thing was when Anabel Pino's body had turned up on one of his tables. He recalled the feeling of dread that crept up on him as he realized who it was, the slow nausea that made his stomach churn as he remembered how she'd laughed with her deadened mouth, how much she loved Marty with her no-longer beating heart... alas, that love took her to her grave. He remembered refusing to do Anabel's autopsy, and the knowledge that he could not do the same now nearly paralyzed him. He'd given Don his word that he would be with her the whole way, and he would do just that. He hadn't seen or spoken with Anabel in several years. Now, the body that lay before him had once been inhabited by someone he considered a dear friend- the last time he'd spoken with her had been yesterday. He found himself desperate in trying to recall the last thing he said to her. It is strange that the most insignificant things suddenly become the most important things. Death seems to have a way of turning the world upside down.

"I'm so sorry, Jessica," he told the young woman. It was strange, seeing her so still. Jessica Angell had always been a woman in motion. He could only imagine the pain going through Don's conscious at the moment. The young detective left only a moment ago with the frightening whisper, when referring to Jessica's killers, 'And God help them.' Sid had no doubts about the other man's intent as he stalked out of the morgue, leaving a wake of despair and darkness behind him. The aging medical examiner could only hope that Flack would do nothing foolish. And Sid held no illusions that the hope was strong. As a practical matter, Flack had just lost the love of his life. To Sid's knowledge, they hadn't really come out and told anyone they'd been seeing each other; it just seemed to become a widely known assumption about the partners.

He had originally planned on packing her up and shipping her back to his own morgue, perhaps in the notion that he knew Jessica would want to be somewhere familiar. He was well-aware of her aversion to autopsies. He remembers her telling him once she didn't want to be autopsied. "_Unless I drop dead, and you guys have no idea why, and have exhausted all possible alternatives, then, and only then, can you autopsy me." _He was saddened by not respecting her wishes, because it was quite obvious how she was killed- the .50 caliber bullet to the left hemisphere of her abdomen. Any other caliber of weapon, and Sid would've called it a recoverable injury. As it was, the kidnappers just so happened to be packing military-grade weaponry, not to mention the man who would fatally wound Detective Angell plugged two .50 caliber bullets into her relatively small body with a Desert Eagle pistol. The fact that she was able to withstand two spoke fathoms about her pain tolerance, balance, and just plain stubbornness.

The Desert Eagle is, simply put, a semi-automatic rifle packed into a hand gun. There is a reason people call it 'The Hand Cannon.' Using a gas-operated system normally found in military-grade rifles, the Desert Eagle lacks the normal short recoil or blow-back designs, allowing the barrel to not move as it fires. It's a combination that spells 'deadly' for whoever is on the receiving end of a bullet. It has almost no practical use in the real world, mostly being a gun built to intimidate.

Sid had planned exactly how it would go, had already begun the process of filling out the precursory filing for the autopsy, and had only to obtain a signature from the nearest attending to finalize the body transfer. He found it despicable that her body was now treated as evidence, as property of the New York-Presbyterian Hospital until Sid himself filled out the paperwork that would officially rule her death a homicide, and custody of her remains would go to the New York Police Department Crime Lab. _Despicable,_ he thought again.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Sid stepped towards the metallic table, steeling himself to prepare her body for the imminent transportation.

The events that followed are somewhat of a blur for Sid. Some moments stand in his mind with a crystal-clarity, like a photograph, while others are glazed over and hard to recall. Sid would later assume it was the brevity of the moment, but it made it no less poignant.

A tall, heavy-set African American man with a neatly trimmed goatee and a shaved, bald head came in first. He was an intimidating presence- his tall frame hadn't an ounce of fat on it, only heavy, thick bands of muscle stretching over large bones. His dark, almost black eyes had the ability to intimidate any soul they set their sights upon. At that moment, he set them upon Dr. Hammerback.

He flashed his credentials. Federal credentials. "Agent Victor Reagan, Homeland Security. Do not touch that body."

Sid placed himself between the intruders and Jessica. Federal government be damned, he wasn't letting them get anywhere near her. He'd promised Don. He'd _promised._ "This body is the property of The New York Police Department," the ME said, sounding more authoritative than he thought he even had the capacity to.

"Not anymore," stated Agent Reagan, producing an Executive Order to the startled medical examiner. "I have orders to take this body as evidence in regards to a recent terrorist threat."

The crisp white paper trembled slightly in his hands. There was the president's signature, right there in the corner. He recognized the names of several other high-ranking Washington officials... Secretary of Defense, director of Homeland Security, Secretary of the State, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation... It was all he could do to try and speak in his defense, "This woman was not killed in a terrorist attack. She was killed during a kidnapping attempt of Connor Dunbrook." Sid's voice rose in crescendo towards the end of the sentence, realizing that he was right. A terrorist threat? How stupid did they think he was? "I'm sorry, but it would be irresponsible of me to just release this body without proper inquiry into what purpose you have with her," he asserted.

Agent Reagan gestured to the Executive Order, "Perhaps the President of the United States' signature was not enough for you?"

Sid could clearly see the annoyance etched on the Homeland Security agent's face. The aging medical examiner sighed, "I understand, it's just that... this is the body of a very good friend. And I promised that I would be the one to perform her autopsy when the time came."

Agent Reagan seemed to soften slightly. "If you allow us to take her body, there will be no need for an autopsy."

Sid looked up in shock at that. No autopsy? It's what Jess always wanted. As much as he knew Jess liked him, she would've preferred to not have him rummaging around in her insides. "Then... why... why are you taking her body?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that is highly classified information."

Sid sighed. He cast a glance at Jessica's body. By now, he noticed a team of roughly four individuals had gathered around her body, waiting for Agent Reagan's okay as to whether or not they could move her. "She never wanted an autopsy... you may..." Sid struggled to find his voice. "Take her." It pained him to say those words, pained him to disregard a friend's wishes while honoring another's.

Agent Reagan placed a hand on the ME's shoulder. "We will take good care of her. I promise."

**Roughly 12 hours later**

**Washington Hospital Center**

**4th Floor, Surgery Recovery, Intensive Care Unit**

**Room SR264**

**Washington, D.C., United States**

Being in a coma after massive blood loss is a trying experience, like trying to swim through sand. Everything in your body is sore, every breath is an effort, every beat of the heart is pulsing unwilling blood through seemingly shrunken veins.

The sensation was all too familiar to Jessica Angell as she awoke slowly, feeling as though her entire body had been ripped apart and put back together again. She tried to sit up, but the air was forced out of her lungs and tears stung her eyes when she felt a stabbing, agonizing pain shoot through her abdominal area. The first thing on her mind was confusion. _What on earth happened?_

Her mind was a jumble of images and sounds;_ shattering glass, unending blue, complete and horrible pain unlike any she'd ever known, sirens, the feeling of vertigo, and then utter silence._

She breathed carefully, closing her eyes and trying her best to rearrange her scrambled memories. The last thing she could clearly remember was her assignment. Guarding Conner Dunbrook. Yes, that was it. She was on courtroom duty, and she remembered being a little grumpy about the assignment, knowing that it was job for uniforms and not a detective, and she'd told the captain as much... was this at the courtroom? No, somewhere else, with tables and chairs and a window that encompassed nearly an entire wall... They were at the Tillery Diner, that was it. She could clearly remember the large bay window. In fact, the clear glass window stood out in her mind amongst the rapidly organizing clutter of her memories. She remembered ordering her favorite breakfast... Don's teasing about her predictability in breakfast? She remembered that... Was he there? She didn't remember him being there. No, she remembered suddenly. He called her. They made plans to meet up when their shifts ended.

Their conversation ended before he could tell her what time he'd be over. Why?

She sought the source of the shattering glass noise that had dominated the flashes of memory. What had shattered the glass? Was it a sniper? No... something bigger. A vehicle. A vehicle drove straight through the diner's front window. The massive bay window that stuck out in her memory like a sore thumb.

Why?

Her detective mind automatically provided an answer: a kidnapping attempt. It must have been. She was escorting a very high-profile witness to the courthouse. A kidnapping is the only straightforward explanation. And she remembered the weapons. Military-grade.

And she remembered the Desert Eagle.

The one that shot her.

_You were shot._ The realization startled her. She'd come very close before to being nailed by a bullet, but each time it turned out to be a graze. She'd been stabbed, sliced, and a myriad of other injuries before, but never shot.

Her mind was slowly re-righting itself, and she easily pulled up the memory of shooting at the man wielding the Desert Eagle, the feeling of being punched in the chest, holding her footing and managing to empty the rest of her clip, (she thinks she remembered hitting him...) and then she was on the ground with an intense burn of pain in her side.

She remembered Don's eyes, panicked and terrified, over her. She remembered feeling safe now that Don was there. Whenever he was with her, she always felt so safe. She remembered letting her eyes drift shut with the knowledge that she didn't have to protect herself anymore, that her partner would take care of her.

With her painful memories completely open to her, she began looking around the room. She was in an impersonal hospital room, outfitted it white. There were no windows, which she was painfully aware of. She thought she was alone until she spied a young woman who was wearing black pants, a pair of combat boots, and a green blouse. What Jess did not miss was the gun and holster on her hip and the gleaming, gold badge next to it. _Why would I be guarded by a plainclothes cop?_ "Who are you?" Jess called out, her voice sounding a bit off to her own ears.

She jumped slightly, obviously not noticing that her charge was awake. "Agent Susan Cheney."

The word _agent _threw Jess off slightly. She'd been expecting an officer, a detective at the most... a closer inspection of the badge made the injured NYPD detective realize it was not a police department badge. If she was correct, it appeared to be an FBI badge. _The FBI?_ _Why would the FBI be guarding me?_ "Why are you here?" She asked, but then another question seemed slightly more pressing as her priorities became clearer and clearer. "Where am I?"

"Washington Hospital Center."

"Washington? As in D.C.?"

"Yes."

Jess paused. "Why am I here?"

"You'll have to speak with Agent Reagan."

A brief pause, and then a sarcastic, "Not the talkative one, are you?"

Agent Cheney didn't find it very funny, and wisely chose not to answer. Instead, she pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number, and spoke into the receiver in a very hushed tone. "She's awake... Yes... Yes... Yes, sir. I will." And with that the call was over.

"Is Flack here? I'd really like to speak with him." Understatement of the century, she realized.

Agent Cheney looked confused. "Who?"

"Detective Don Flack? He was the one who brought me in." Why wouldn't Flack be here? Sure it was D.C., but she knew that he would've followed her anywhere so he could be there when she woke up. For that matter, why wasn't he here, next to her holding her hand? "He is here, isn't he?"

Now Agent Cheney just looked downright uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait for my superiors. I can't answer any of your questions."

Jess was getting suspicious now. Why wasn't Flack here? Nothing would've been able to convince him to leave her side unless she were dead. Nothing. "Why isn't he here?" She'd moved past the notion that he was here, and was now only concerned about why he wasn't. Had he been injured too? No, she remembers him carrying her to the car... he was fine. But then _why wasn't he here?_ She needed him, desperately so, and she wasn't one to admit she needed something very often.

The door opened, and Angell's heart leaped into her throat, thinking that Don was finally here, and that everything would be okay when she was safe and warm in his tender embrace. Just as fast as the hope made her stomach tighten, it all disappeared in an instant when she saw two suited men who were most definitely not her partner enter her room.

One was a massive African American man whose mere presence made the room temperature drop at least 5 degrees. His neat goatee, bald head, and dark eyes seemed to scream intimidation. He carried with him a standard issue semi-automatic, and a credentials that looked to be federal, minus the gold badge Agent Cheney carried.

The second man carried a gold shield identical to Cheney's, but his presence was significantly less threatening that his counterpart who obviously needed to shop at the Big & Tall stores. He was slender, and seemed to be lost in the stiff, boxy design of his suit. The gun he carried looked similar to Big & Tall's, only its presence seemed much more out-of-place. His cropped blonde hair appeared heavily styled with hair gel, but his most striking features were his dark green eyes, which surprisingly complimented him well.

Big & Tall spoke first. "Good morning, Miss Angell."

She was about to chew him out for calling her 'miss' and not detective when she realized that she had no idea what time it was. Not having the patience to put on a mask of politeness, Jess asked outright, "Why am I here? And where is my partner? And who the fuck _are _you?" She cringed at her swear, knowing full well she shouldn't have let her censorship slip so easily, but quite frankly, she couldn't bring herself to get concerned over it. The questions she'd just voiced were much more pressing on her mind.

Stickman seemed put off by her language, but Big & Tall seemed oddly pleased and smiled slightly. "Agent Victor Reagan, Homeland Security."

"Special Agent Thomas Reed," Stickman said, apparently prompted by Big & Tall's introduction. "FBI. Head of Organized Crimes."

"Why am I here? And _where is my partner?_" The last question was the one she wanted the answer to the most, but they decided to answer her first question first.

"You've been selected for a highly classified undercover mission. One that would require you to completely sever all ties to your identity as Jessica Angell," Agent Reagan informed, face grim. He'd never been in a situation such as this, and the girl was so young... so young to give up so much. He felt as if the government was giving her no choice. They'd already declared Jessica Angell deceased. They'd forged all the necessary paperwork to prove through a paper trail that Jessica Angell was dead. Suppose she refused the assignment, he mused. What would she do? Go back to her grieving family and friends and say 'Just kidding'? Cruel and unusual punishment was banned in the Bill of Rights, and that situation would be a sickening example of punishment that was both unusual and cruel.

She paused, turning over his words in her head. "'Sever all ties'? What do you mean?" She was afraid of his answer.

He sighed, sympathy softening his features. "You were declared dead after ten hours of surgery. Jessica Angell, by any official means, is deceased."

At that moment, time seemed to stand still. She could scarcely breathe. _I'm dead?_ If she was declared dead then that meant... "No! I have to find Don, tell him I'm okay. And my family... they need to know..." She attempted to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed, but cascading waves of pain stole the remaining breath in her lungs, and her motions came to an abrupt halt.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Angell, but this mission is extremely important. If you refuse to take it, it will take several more years to find a suitable person who has the capabilities to perform this assignment to the level we require."

His words barely registered with Jessica, the only words she could think at the moment being that she _is deceased._ no one knew she was alive, save for the federal government. "I... I need to..." her words were becoming garbled, her mind and heart racing.

"I understand that this is quite overwhelming for you." Special Agent Reed didn't sound very understanding.

Jess closed her eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath in through her nose, and then let it out with a quiet _'ahh'_ through her mouth. She repeated the action a few more times before she reopened her eyes with a new focus and clarity. They wanted her for a mission. She needed to find out the details. "What's the mission?"

Agent Reagan looked relieved that she was willing to listen. "We have an opportunity to introduce an undercover into the Russian gang, the Black Hand. They are a-"

"I know who they are," Jess interrupted as gently as possible. Her knowledge of the Black Hand wasn't by any means complete, but she knew very much about them considering the fact that their main base of operations in the US was run from New York City. In her some private moments, she dreamed of being the one who would finally bring the organization down.

The Black Hand, Черная Рука, was a global criminal network, considered by law enforcement to be one of the worst gangs of the twenty-first century. They were world-renowned for being close to impenetrable to undercovers, and were known to metaphorically 'have a finger in every pie'; they commonly export controlled substances, illegal weaponry, stolen antiquities and merchandise, and recently became known in the human trafficking underworld.

Founded sometime in the fifties in the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the Black Hand was the brainchild of long-time criminal Mischa Rusakov. Rusakov was a retired USSR interrogator who dabbled in the criminal element long before he left the military. Known for his brutal interrogation tactics, Mischa made his grand entrance onto the gang scene in obtaining, exporting, and dealing illegal firearms. He started off small with mostly stolen military-grade weapons, and over the years increasing in bulk until Rusakov became a household name when it was revealed that he was able to obtain an undetermined number of nuclear warheads. However, it appears Rusakov never sold off these warheads, keeping them for himself so that he could have all the chips when it came to dealing with threats from either the government or other criminal organizations. It was a conservative but smart move in a business where proper preservation of the organization's future was often put to the side in favor of increasing profit margins.

His illegal weapons trade was a criminal syndicate before it was officially named. Police around the USSR began to know his operation as 'The Hand of Death.' Whether or not he took inspiration at that or not, towards the end of his life, Mischa passed on control of his gang, which he'd officially named The Black Hand, to his eldest daughter, Sabine Rusakov, in the mid-seventies. The Black Hand was passed down through the generations, the head of the organization only being direct descendents of Mischa Rusakov.

Sabine Rusakov, much like her father, became a worldwide criminal phenomenon with her cruel, ruthless, and backstabbing tactics. Under her leadership, the Black Hand finally broke through Russian borders. It's first international base was formed in Japan, and from there, strong support developed in the United States, Brazil, Mexico, and several other countries in Central and South America.

Not long after she established overseas chapters, Sabine married Aleksandr Kaskov. Kaskov's criminal connections were extensive. He'd not long ago formed his own gang, but it's believed that he saw an opportunity for greater capital gains if he merged with the Black Hand. No one was sure if it was a business arrangement or love that drove them to marry.

Aleksandr and Sabine soon had a child- Dmitri Kaskov- in 1980. Following him were Svetlana Kaskov in 1982, and the youngest, twin brothers, Adrik and Alexei in 1989. Recently, it was discovered that Aleksandr was diagnosed with one of the rarest diseases known to man- also, one that is incurable and untreatable. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. A prion disease that vaguely resembles a severe case of Alzheimer's, CJD causes dementia, confusion, hallucinations, muscular twitches, seizures, deteriorated motor and coordination skills, and worst of all, personality changes that can change the affected person into someone else entirely. If the word on the street was correct, the eldest son, Dmitri was now running the show while his father's mental and physical health slowly deteriorated.

Jess was absolutely shocked that there was even an opportunity to get an undercover into the system. The Black Hand was notorious for being impenetrable to undercovers. And on those rare occasions when an undercover could penetrate the ranks, they could pick them out dangerously easily.

One such occasion included the Black Hand hacking into a TV network's signal, and broadcasting the slaughter of 5 undercover cops on live television to send a bloody and violent message: _if we catch you, we kill you._ It was a horrific event, one that made even civilians aware of the Black Hand's dangerous message. Police precincts across the country ramped up their Organized Crime units after the event, but undercovers became a rarity.

"An undercover opportunity?" Her doubt was clearly evident in her words. "How did the feds pull that one off?"

Special Agent Reed seemed to warm up to her a little. "We can't share with you all of the details until you agree to work with us."

"What would I be required to do?"

It was Reed who answered this time. "We need you to become essentially a big-time criminal who is able to infiltrate the ranks in a reasonable manner, and climb the 'gang leader career ladder,' if you will. The main objective of this mission is to gather enough evidence to prosecute and put away any and all available leaders the gang might have. Many probalems with undercovers that came before was that they were going after relatively small fish. We are going for the whale shark. It would require a highly-trained undercover, and a completely untraceable identity, which you already have. The FBI would train you until you can be put on assignment."

It was essentially what she'd always wanted, but rarely spoke about. The FBI was like the major leagues for cops. Her father had often spoken of the Bureau with great respect, and she remembers wishing she could one day be among them. But this mission... was unlike anything she'd ever done, or even thought she had the capacity to do.

Become a crime lord? Flirt with danger at a much more personal level than she'd ever encountered before? Jessica was a woman who did not doubt her abilities, and one could make the argument that she was slightly cocky about her ability to handle a gun, but this... was something entirely foreign.

As it was foreign, it was also groundbreaking. It was the reason most police officers got into the law enforcement field- to stop crime. And now, there was a magnificent opportunity to strike back at _the heart_ of one of the largest, and most vile criminal organizations ever created. It was that deep-seeded sense of justice, that wish to stop a crime before it started was what prompted Jess to assist Stella in her one-man crusade against Sebastian Diakos- the attractive allure of striking directly back at corruption.

This was an opportunity that would make her famous. She could go down in history as the cop who infiltrated the Black Hand. _The Black Hand._ The cop who took them down. It could be her. It _would_ be her. She wanted to do it-put away hundreds, if not thousands of scumbags and make the entire country, probably the entire _world, _a lot safer.

But, the ever present worry of the repercussions of her 'death' worried her greatly. She was very concerned about her family, but mainly Don. What did he do when he learned she was dead? Would he be okay? She had the utmost faith in her partner as one of the strongest people she knew, but was this mission worth sacrificing her happiness? _Their _happiness?

In the recent weeks, they'd begun to have lengthy discussions about the future, about what they wanted in their future. At some point in their relatively short relationship, Jess had begun to assume she'd end up with Don, that they'd have a couple of kids, move out to the suburbs and be a stereotypical family with a minivan and a Golden Retriever. Both and mutually agreed that the other was a definite part of their future. It was interesting ground they were walking on- they seemed to agree their futures would be with each other, but they hadn't yet said 'I love you,' even though she'd wanted to say it for a long, and she was fairly certain he did too. Could she give up their futures for this? Her heart was torn, desperately wanted to say 'No', to say she needed to be with Don too much to ever accept this assignment. As much as she dearly loved him (she knew all along... she had a feeling he did too), being a cop was as big a part of her as anything, and her sense of duty to the people she served, to fighting crime, would never fade. She knew it was just a big part of Don, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't want her to abandon her duty, the chance to protect millions, just to be with him. He wouldn't. "Would I... ever be able to go back?" Jess managed.

Agent Reagan seemed to understand, but his face wasn't encouraging. "I suppose it may be possible, but... the likelihood is... not very good."

"So... no, I wouldn't," Jess said slowly. The finality, the enormity, and the absolute, terrifying uncertainty was beginning to dawn on her.

Special Agent Reed finally softened towards her. "It would probably not be possible. Witness Protection would probably require you to stay off the radar, even after the mission is finished, depending on how everything pans out." She appreciated his blunt honesty.

She tried to envision what Don would tell her if he were to hear of what she was being asked to do. It hurt her to envision his face, to imagine not seeing him ever again. There was a truly physical pain in her chest as she imagined it. "My partner's not here, is he?" she asked, finally knowing the answer to the question she'd been so desperate to know.

"I'm afraid not," Reed answered.

She squeezed her eyes shut again. _I'm so sorry , Don. I love you._ "I'll do it." And with that statement, her fate was sealed, and Jessica Angell began to cry.

**1 month later**

**FBI Safehouse**

**Nighttime**

**Outskirts of Richmond, Virginia**

It had started with the dreams, the nightmares that seemed like they were reality; the subconscious can lock you in your own personal hell when the false security of sleep makes you lower your defenses. They always ended the same. Jess would bolt awake, and make a mad dash to the bathroom to vomit until her stomach muscles began to cramp, and acrid, black bile forced its way out of her, burning anything it touched. The night was a torture chamber, and the day was plagued with flu-like symptoms and biting migraines that would blur her vision and make standing up impossible.

And that was how it began that night.

She began to dread the night time.

_Faces._

_There were faces everywhere. She was nowhere and everywhere all at once. The landscape had a distinctly ethereal quality about it, nothing permanent, everything shifting. Nothing could be focused on except for the faces._

_Twisting and contorting in agony, they were the faces of the people she loved. Her mother, her father, her brothers, her niece and nephew, her friends... Don. She heard their tortured shrieks of terror, and they were all pleading for her to help them._

_She ran, their images just in front of her fingertips, then they would flit away, just away from her fingertips. Taunting her with her inability to help them._

_Then suddenly the scene became crystal clear. There were no longer twisted faces in a dream-like landscape that resembled a Picasso painting. Now it was photograph crisp, and she could feel pain emanating from her stomach, could feel the shards of glass digging into her back, feel her life slipping away._

_She tried to scream, and no sound came to be. She saw Don's eyes, the ice blue that always held so much warmth as he regarded her. They were now filled with pain. She couldn't tell if it was physical or emotional, but all she knew was that when she tried to reach out, to touch his face with her hand, he disappeared in a moment, turning into a million wooden shards that rained down on her face._

_And then she had nothing to live for, and she felt the world growing dimmer and dimmer..._

With a gasp, Jess's eyes shot open, regarding her surroundings with a bit frantically. A dream. It had been a dream. Her body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and the sling that held her right arm immobile itched her shoulder irritatingly.

She tried to sit up, but as usual was halted abruptly by the pain in her abdomen. As soon as she fell back into her pillows, another petulant need would not be ignored.

She shot up faster than she was supposed to, much faster than her healing injuries could accommodate, rushing to the bathroom attached to her bedroom.

As always, she threw herself down in front of the toilet, and her body began expelling any non-essentials on board. As her body convulsed, painfully, as the severe wounds on her abdomen were not close to being healed yet, Jess's mind was mildly calm. The scene was not an uncommon one. Most of these dreams would end the exact same way: with her writhing on the bathroom floor while her body punished itself.

When this particular episode ended, she somewhat shakily rose to her feet. Her stomach was beginning to settle, but she could feel her pulse near the injury site, and the pain was slowly fading. She rested her left hand on the counter next to the sink, and then turned it on, ready to use the cool waters to sooth her sweating face. With the monotonous sound of water bubbling from the faucet, the dim light of the bathroom revealed a patch of red coloring the left side of her tank top. She gritted her teeth, and jammed the water tap off.

This situation was that bullet's fault. The nightmares. The PTSD. The FBI taking her. All because of that bullet wound. She found herself glaring hatefully at the small area, slowly darkening with her blood. Getting a hold of herself, she shucked the shirt, her torso completely bare in front of the mirror. The expansive wound dressing of gauze and medical tape was surely becoming soaked with blood- and the bleeding seemed to stem from several places. The bleeding was far too slow and weak to be from anything vital, so she wouldn't have to panic over that. But, she noted with discontent, she would have to remove the gauze and inspect the stitches and staples herself to make sure nothing was popped or ripped. And changing the dressing was not a pleasant experience.

The doctors told her that this would happen- if her blood got pumping to much, or if she overexerted herself, it would start to bleed, and she could pop several stitches or rip out staples. She took her discarded tank top and folded it over itself a few times, and jammed the garment between her teeth. She then proceeded to suck in a breath, and began to pull off the gauze, medical tape, and dressing that protected the various wounds on her stomach. The pull in reality wasn't too awful, but each millimeter became more and more painful as it tugged at the scattered holes and cuts in her body. A slow burn of fire worked its way across the afflicted area, and she began to tremble with the pain. Her teeth bit fiercely into the tank top to keep from screaming in agony as the fire felt like it was consuming her from the skin inward. She wished she could rip it off quickly, but alas, that too it seemed posed a threat of tearing out stitches and staples. She winced when she felt the loose strand of a stitch catch the gauze bandage as she worked it off, and so she slowed her pace even more, despite the pain it caused.

Her jaw slackened, and she dropped the tank top from her mouth when she was finally finished, letting out a small whimper to combat the stifling silence. She soon sighed in relief, though, when she saw all stitches and staples were intact. Her healing wounds were disgusting sights to behold. Several surgical incisions were still healing around the obscenely large hole caused by a .50 caliber round, some held together with stitches, others by medical staples. In places it seemed to be mending, but in others, it hurt to even look at, let alone touch. The patching job looked harsh to Jess's untrained eye, but slowly they were healing. Some were black with dried blood, fewer were inflamed and red, much to Jess's chagrin. A thorough bathing with hydrogen peroxide would soon be in order to prevent any further infection.

Her eyes flicked to the first time the the healing shoulder wound- the one she hardly noticed any more (that and the almost healed surgical incision on her leg where the doctors had harvested a transplant artery to save her life.) The only reason she paid it any mind was because she was stuck in an obnoxious sling, which the FBI wanted her to wear at all times so that the damaged muscles of her right shoulder would heal properly. She protested this, at first, until she learned that she may never be able to fire a weapon again if she didn't. That quieted her protests pretty quickly. Sometimes, the only way she got through the night was having a gun in her hand. She wouldn't load it of course, but the sentiment would remain, she would feel safe with the cool synthetic plastic-metal in her palm. Her psychologist was having a field day with that one.

Her psychologist assigned to her by the FBI, Something Sweets, was a godsend no matter how obnoxious Jess sometimes perceived him to be. Normally, Jessica Angell would wait out a problem. She was never one to reach out for help. Ever. In a male-dominated profession, she had to thicken her skin and depend on her own self-reliance to get any shred of respect. While in the hospital, she'd experienced terrifyingly real nightmares that saw her heart rate spike and sweat soak her sheets. Jess hadn't thought anything of them. She had just been through a traumatic experience, and nightmares were expected, right? But only a few days after she got out of the hospital, the flu-like symptoms started. She thought she had just that- the flu. But when it didn't go away after a few days, she got worried.

She went to the (FBI-approved, of course) doctor first, who gave her the startling news. She was likely suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A disorder that would never completely go away, but could be managed through medication and intensive psychiatric therapy.

Jess saw only one way out- attend the sessions, fix herself, and get on with her life. Sweets seemed to like to talk about her past, which didn't settle well with her. She did not want to talk about the past where she was happy. It would only make her doubt herself and this mission that much more. Because if things stayed like this, the constant struggle against her own body, she knew she would seriously consider abandoning the mission.

Tears streaked out of her eyes noiselessly, almost as if she did not notice them at all. Her eyes squeezed shut. She did not like to be weak. She was strong, and she knew that. But here she was, the strong Jessica Angell, reduced to a shell of a woman by a measly case of PTSD. Her left hand balled into a fist, so hard her nails created little half-moon indents in the skin of her palm as she considered how weak she must look. And how strong she needed to be. She would not be defeated. She was self-reliant, could draw on seemingly non-existent reservoirs of strength inside of her, and push onward. With that sentiment, she brushed her tears away with a look of resolution in her eyes.

She knew she'd be right back here tomorrow night, but the strength she drew from would sustain her for tonight and tomorrow. She began to redress her injury. She was nothing if not resilient.

**9 months later**

**Officially: Apartment of Sarah Vhann  
>Unofficially: Temporary residence of undercover operative, Special Agent Jessica Angell<strong>

**24th Floor, Capitol Apartment Complex**

**Early Morning**

**Washington, D.C., United States**

Her feet pounded the treadmill steadily, sweat slicking her skin and dampening the shorts and sport bra she wore.

So much was happening. Too much was happening. In the span of less than a year, her entire life was over. Jessica Angell was dead. Any government database would tell you as much. She'd looked up her own autopsy report. It was chilling to read about the events that had claimed her former life. According to the report, Jessica Angell had met her untimely end on the operating table of Dr. Carla Griblam and Dr. Jeffery Synova due to extreme blood loss and complications with internal injuries caused by a gunshot wound to the abdomen. According to every doctor she'd ever seen, she should not still be breathing, and thus, her death had seemed... reasonable. Rational. An expected turn of events after she was shot. But she hadn't. She had healed quickly, although she was now short one ovary (not that it mattered much, anymore. She'd only ever imagined kids with one man... and she couldn't see him ever again.) and she was scarred quite obviously and severely. Her doctors assured her the scarring would fade, but she'd always have a permanent reminder of what had claimed her former life.

Running was somewhat of a comfort- something that Jessica Angell did often when she was feeling stressed. Granted, she much preferred to run outside, but the sometimes-vicious bullet scar on her abdomen acted up mid-run, and caused her great pain. It was not a pleasant experience to have it flare up when she was a half-mile from her apartment with no wallet, cash or anything on her to get a cab or a bus. The last time it happened while she was out, it was only luck that a good Samaritan had stopped their car and helped her back to her apartment. She didn't know what would've happened if that person hadn't stopped.

Such a flare suddenly came on, causing the breath to flee her lungs, and her knees to buckle. She hit the emergency stop on the treadmill before crumpling to the rubber track, a hand coming up to cover the scar on her abdomen. She lay on her back, but almost every muscle in her body was tensed, writhing in the unexpected agony emanating from her stomach. The rough skin felt cool to the touch, but just below the surface felt as though a red-hot knife had been thrust into her body and had begun to twist. Her teeth gritted, her breath escaping in a pained _hiss._

Despite the constant threat of a breakdown such as this, Jessica ran a lot. Some people were built for a life of indolence and inactivity, but she was not one of them. And she hadn't experienced these bouts of crippling pain every time she exercised. Sometimes, she would be eating, or lying in bed asleep and the pain would become everything her mind knew.

She forced herself up, her legs carrying her to her kitchen where she could find her painkillers. She made her way to the cabinet above the sink, and she flung it open, shoving aside several nearly-identical prescription bottles before she found what she was looking for. She gripped the orange bottle in her hand, willing the pain to dissipate on its own. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the bottle and the counter top, teeth gritting in an effort to not scream. She did not like to use the painkillers; she still had an almost-full bottle. She preferred the topical cream that worked almost as well to quickly kill the pain, but she'd run out, and had yet to pick up her prescription. She damned her forgetfulness.

In truth, these spells did not happen very often any more. The FBI had really pushed her rehab and recovery, so she was glad that at least it didn't hurt every waking moment any more. She could sit up, move her shoulder, stand, walk without pain. She remembered times when Don would tell her about the pain of his scar from the bombing, and at the time, she thought she understood it. Now, however, she realized how naive she'd been about his injury. Of course, she'd been the supportive friend and partner, but she didn't truly understand the _pain._ The utter agony.

She waited a few more blazing minutes, but could not stand the pain any longer. She popped the painkillers and swallowed them dry. She felt the effects a few minutes later, and straightened herself up, and drinking a small glass of water before heading to the bathroom.

As she stripped out of her sweaty clothing and turned on and hopped in the shower, she was suddenly very grateful the FBI had pushed her rehab so much. She was far from a masochist, but the pain gave her a focus and clarity the likes she hadn't seen in a long time. And it also gave her something else to focus on besides Jessica's death. Besides the fact that she'd likely never see her family again. Besides the fact she'd probably never see her friends again. Besides the fact that she would never see Don again. Physical pain was cake next to the emotional throes she'd experienced early on.

She'd gradually learned to shove her emotions down, suppress Jessica Angell and all that she'd ever stood for. She learned to project and portray Sarah Vhann, a false persona who was a ruthless, well-known power-player in the criminal underworld who has dabbled in every criminal element possible- from human and drug trafficking to mercenary and assassin work. Sarah Vhann can strut with the best of the worst, the closest to human scum you could get.

Jess had learned very early on that she'd been specially selected for an assignment that had taken _years_ to bring to fruition. Cleverly using CI's, among various other criminal connections, the FBI had been feeding false evidence and intel on this Sarah Vhann since early 2003. It was a precarious position, but it was one of the most arduous, well-planned undercover operations that the Bureau had ever undertaken. The FBI had to take very serious precautions in introducing the undercover Sarah Vhann. They quickly ruled out using any existing undercover operatives the FBI had. It was mostly unnecessary, but they did not want over five years of careful planning to come crashing down because the Black Hand knew the operative.

Enter Jessica Angell.

With her supposedly-fatal bullet wound, it was the perfect opportunity to create a completely untraceable, new identity.

As soon as she'd been well enough after her injury, she'd thrown herself into her undercover training, to forget her past that would not be a part of her future, to ignore the looming threat of her PTSD, to forget Jessica Angell for a little while. She'd become fluent in Russian, and complex and intricate language that she'd drilled herself in since day one of training. Hours upon hours of linguistics classes with the FBI saw her learning the language in just a half a year. An arduous task before her, one that was completely and utterly consuming in time and intellect and would completely occupy her brain for hours on end, the budding undercover operative would throw herself into her study of the language with an intense fervor.

Her study of the Russian language, along with her physical therapy, and her undercover training left her with little time or energy to think about the past and what could've been. She'd learned to master a number of other weapons, mostly guns and military grade weaponry she'd be dealing with whilst entrenched with the gang, but she'd really taken to knives. She found she had a strange talent for knife throwing, and she became do adept with any sort of blade or knife, many of the other undercover trainees began to call her 'Blade'. Throughout her months of training, she gained the knowledge a well-seasoned crime lord would have. It was uncomfortable knowing the kind of information that included what shipping containers would best hold trafficked human slaves or which government agencies were notorious for not thoroughly checking shipping containers for illegal substances.

She turned off the shower, having finished washing her hair. She wrung it out before reaching for her towel and wrapping it around herself.

After blow drying her hair, she hastily put it into a French braid that hung just below her shoulder blades. She quickly dressed, knowing that her undercover partner would be arriving soon. She pulled on a generic teal blouse, comfortable black pants, and her favorite combat boots that the FBI had allowed her to keep. It made her happy that she had at least one thing that tied her to her past life. It was a ridiculous notion that a pair of boots were keeping her tied to her former identity.

She finished tightly lacing them when she heard a knock on her door. He was here.

She opened the door to the massively tall sight of Special Agent Andrew 'Andy' Anderson, otherwise known as Sarah Vhann's older brother and bodyguard, Lucas Vhann. Jess loved teasing him about his name and ridiculously stoic nature. She could swear she'd never seen him crack a single smile; he had only one expression- blank and professional. He was close to seven feet tall and possessed black hair that was shaved so close to the scalp you could scarcely tell what color it was, and a pair of bright, almost sea foam green eyes.

"Well, hey there, Sunshine."

As usual, he didn't crack a grin. She wasn't expecting it. Her teasing was more for her benefit than his. "Good morning, Sarah." Always they called each other by their undercover names. Just in case. She rarely called him 'Luke' as she often made up nicknames on the spot. 'Sunshine' and 'Eyore' were particular favorites of hers.

Initially, Jess had protested having to have an undercover partner. Her outrage was understandable since she had believed the FBI didn't think her capable of completing the mission by herself. But, after calming down and thinking rationally she realized it would be a smart move having another person helping to gather evidence, and to keep her sane. The FBI had also informed her that the mission had been originally plotted to accommodate two agents. "Ever the joker," she said with dry sarcasm. She began to holster the gun she always wore on her hip. "We've got a meeting with the informant in a half-hour."

Andy nodded wordlessly. _The informant_ was another FBI deep-cover agent who'd obtained the necessary information we would need to contact the gang's leader, namely Dmitri Kaskov, and where they would be able to find him. The information was highly classified, and extremely important. 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step' never rang truer than now. This first step would fully launch their campaign against the criminal organization, and after meeting with the informant, they would no longer be able to contact the FBI unless it was a dire emergency.

"Let's roll," Jess, or rather Sarah Vhann, said, as chipper as the situation would allow, as she and her partner hurtled towards the dark unknown.


	2. Of Lies and Deceit

**Title: **Capsizing the Sea: Undercover Rewrite  
><strong>Author: <strong>Serena

**Summary: **Having completed their training, Sarah and Lucas make contact with the Black Hand; and Jess and Andy are now embedded in the ranks.

**Category: **Action, Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Drama

**Timeline/Spoilers: **In canon, just AU where Jess's life/death are concerned. Everything that happened on the show is still happening, except Jess is alive in the background, and unbeknownst to everyone.

**Ship: **Don/Jess,

**AN1: **This is a rewrite of my story which was published 2 years ago. I plan to lengthen all chapters, clean up the dialogue, deepen the plot, wind in several sub-plots, improve characters/behavior, and hopefully make it a better story as a whole.

**AN2: **If this is a reader who read the story many years ago, this story will be wildly different in some areas, similar in others. Keep those eyeballs peeled. If you're just joining me, thank you.

**AN3:** Wow. I am truly and utterly blown away by the lack of response to this story... don't worry, I will finish it. It may just take a bit longer than first expected. Dual sports and school take up the majority of my time. Just saying, reviews are the only type of return an author gets on their investment of time and creativity into their stories.

**AN4:** This chapter is much shorter than the rest I am planning for this story, but there will not be any more twelve thousand word chapters like the first one.

_CHAPTER II: Of Lies and Deceit  
><em>

****Some of the bravest and the best men of all the world, certainly in law enforcement, have made their greatest contributions while they were undercover.**  
><strong>~~Thomas Foran<strong>**

**He that would live in peace and at ease must not speak all he knows or all he sees.  
>~~Benjamin Franklin<strong>

**3 weeks later  
><strong>

**Сфера ночной клуб "The Sphere Nightclub"  
><strong>

**Nighttime**

**Office of Shay Walker, otherwise known as Dmitri Kaskov**

**Новосибирск, Сибирь. Россия "Novosibirsk, Siberia. Russia"**

The popular nightclub where Kaskov was supposedly located this evening, known simply as The Sphere, from the moment you walked the long, plush red carpet inside past the heavily-armed security guards, struck you as aggressively sexual. The intense, pulse-pounding music simmered low in your belly, sensual like a potent drink. A shadowy main room held a massive thirty-five hundred foot dance floor that was elevated a good six or seven feet off the floor by what appeared to be dozens of glass pillars which gave the observer the impression that the dance floor was floating. Containing the dance floor was a sphere made out of several curving panes of glass. The panes encircled the dance floor completely, but there were gaps between each concave pane (Jess theorized it was so the occupants wouldn't die of the smell of sweat and the humidity of a crowded dance floor). The elaborate dance floor was complimented by white and gray Siberian marble poles, ornamental steel columns that ran along the ceiling, and white and silver drapery-silhouetted cages lined the far wall for intimate seclusion that left nothing to the imagination. A well-stocked bar was off to the right, tended by a shirtless man and several scantily-clad waitresses and surrounded by various club patrons. Many were openly making out, and Jess even spotted a couple having sex in a darkened corner. Jess scowled in disgust. _I'm assuming there is no shame here._

To fit in with the club scene, Jess wore a form fitting, steel blue and gray cocktail dress. The bodice was tightly fitting, but the skirt flared slightly below her hips, and ended mid thigh. The strapless dress fit her perfectly, and complimented her artificially altered features- dark blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. The eyes she could deal with, but she hoped to change her hair back to brown as soon as possible.

The dance floor was beyond packed, illuminated by dynamic mood lighting, artificial haze, and the most erotic display of bodies moving Jess had ever seen before. Both men and women in various stages of undress lost themselves in the smoky darkness, slithering salaciously in couples, threesomes, and crowds of writhing flesh. Every so often, a couple or a small group would slink off the dance floor via several glass staircases and head towards one of the draped cages.

Jess glanced warily around. Along with the armed security guards at the front, she now saw many guards holding various calibers and types of weaponry positioned throughout the club; their presence immediately told her they were in the right place. No regular club owner would have this many security guards, let alone ones so heavily armed. She was able to identify several AK-47s, at least two M16A4s, a few MP5s, and four men carrying all three. Her right hand twitched towards her gun, cleverly hidden on her thigh despite the difficulty of hiding on it in that damn dress on instinct, but she resisted.

This was no ordinary night club.

"Ready?" Jess quietly asked. The FBI had previously designed their identities that Andy would play more of a bodyguard role, as Jess was the only one with undercover experience, and thus would be taking the lead in the investigation.

Andy nodded stoically, needing no words to convey his conviction. Jess mimicked his demeanor, and the pair set off for the back office. As soon as they neared it, four of the armed guards rushed in front of them, faces betraying absolutely nothing. "Вид покровителей, нет ничего для вас здесь. Пожалуйста, вернитесь к основной части нашего клуба, чтобы насладиться нашей различных помещений," one said coolly. (_Kind patrons, there is nothing for you here. Please return to the main part of our club to enjoy our various accommodations._)

Jess fell into her Sarah persona, easily saying back in perfect Russian, "Мы не покровителей. У меня запланирована встреча с работодателем. Мне сказали, чтобы узнать о состоянии здоровья Александра?" Jess finished with a sly smile, using the secret phrase she'd obtained to gain access to Mr. Kaskov. (_We are not patrons. I have a scheduled meeting with your employer. I was told to inquire about Aleksandr's health?_)

The guards exchanged simultaneous looks, a thousand silent messages seeming to pass between them within the span of a second, before the one who'd spoken to her previously turned back to her. "We shall inform Mr. Kaskov of your arrival, Ms. Vhann," he said in heavily-accented English.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she said as smoothly as she had before.

They were left under the visage of one guard until the other came back, face just as blank as when he left. "Mr. Kaskov will see you now." The undercover duo was led through an ornately designed black glass door, with engravings, only visible when the lights hit them in a certain manner, that appeared to be a family tree of some sort. They were led down a short hallway, and another fancily designed door, this time made of some form of wood Jess couldn't identify.

Through the door was her ultimate target. At first glance, Dmitri Kaskov was an intimidating form. His tall frame- over six and a half feet- was the opposite of lean or willowy. He was entirely solid muscle, with a very tan complexion. His dark hair was shaved close to his scalp and had eyes so dark you could scarcely decipher where the iris ended and the pupil began. One look from him screamed 'intimidation'.

Jess was on the recieving end of one of those looks, but she acted absolutely unimpeded as she walked forward, placing herself at the very front of Kaskov's desk, and cocked a brow at his silence thus far. She caught the glimmer of surprise in his eyes, obviously miffed his look hadn't deterred her in the slightest.

"Sarah Vhann," he finally greeted, a cocky grin on his face.

Jess fell easily into Sarah, her face betraying nothing of the truth, and boasting an easy confidence and deadly grace, "The one and only."

His massive form was an intimidating sight. Jess ignored the fact that the man could probably snap her like a twig and not even break a sweat. Her fingers itched to feel the hilt of her switchblade, just in case. She let none of her inner turmoil play out on her face."Your reputation precedes you."

"I'd be offended otherwise," she answered, equally as cocky as the grin still plastered on his face.

That response earned a feral grin from Kaskov. "Why don't you sit so we can get down to business, hm?" Jess conceded (her feet were beginning to hurt from the ridiculously high heels she wore, anyway) and settled herself in a black leather chair opposite his desk. "I've heard rumors you want to break into my field of play."

Jess let a snarky grin work its way across her face. "I'm glad you think I'm worth gossiping about."

This earned a half-laugh from Kaskov, who seemed to be treating this meeting more as a social call than a business arrangement. Jess knew her Sarah persona would be annoyed by his flippant attitude. "I happen to greatly admire the work you do. Your expertise at staying three steps ahead of the authorities is legendary."

"I appreciate your obvious compliments, but I believe we were here to discuss my proposal?" Jess said, steering the conversation back to where she wanted it.

"Ah, but of course it is highly confidential, so I'm afraid your... friend may need to leave the room," Kaskov gestured to Andy, who took a post right behind her chair, his massive form a darkly calm presence in the room.

Jess scowled. "My bodyguard will go nowhere. Keep in mind we are meeting on your turf, Kaskov, but on my terms. He stays. He is as much a part of my operation as I am." Jess, yet again, caught a flicker of suprise crossing over Kaskov's features. She smirked inwardly. He's obviously not used to someone so easily defying him.

Kaskov didn't let his surprise at Sarah's utter lack of fear or intimidation in his presence. That had most assuredly _never_ happened before, much less from a woman. His initial sweep of her slight frame, attractive features, and scintillating attire was anything but intimidating. Arousing, most definitely. Dmitri Kaskov rarely did business with women. He'd never really considered women to be too good at the whole criminal element. They were too... compassionate. There were only two women he considered to be capable of being the worst swindlers and criminals imaginable, his mother and sister. Unimaginable criminal geniuses; what they lacked in physical brawn they made up for in cunning and cold composure. He was currently considering adding Sarah Vhann to that list.

In his silence, Jess waved over Andy, "My brother. More the muscle in this operation than the brains. He's got some... _fascinating_ interrogation techniques that I've put to good use." She let her words be twisted in everyone's mind to what she wished them to be interpreted as.

"I'd like to see that," Dmitri offered with another sly smirk.

Jess let out a morbid laugh, "You wish taking my secrets would be so easy."

Dmitri chuckled at her response, "But, we are here on business. Would you care for a drink?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. I like to keep alcohol out of my business affairs. I happen to like remembering certain conversations."

Dmitri laughed openly. "So, why are you interested in joining the Black Hand?"

"May I be blunt?"

"Of course."

She ticked off the items on her fingers. "Power. Prestige. Money. In that order."

"A girl after my own heart, I can see. Why would you want more of those things? If what I've gathered about you is true, you've already got plenty of those things."

"In certain channels. However, I've always prided myself on my stealth and ability to stay under the radar. I'd most certainly like to be on the radar now. I want power everywhere. I want Sarah Vhann to become as well-known a name as Al Capone. And quite frankly, I get none of those things when the most of the people who see my face wind up dead moments later. And while my clients leave me certainly well-off, I'm the sort of person who would like to be slightly more than 'well-off.'"

"Interesting."

"Indeed."

The two stared at each other, neither backing down or letting their eyes wander for a moment.

Dmitri's thoughts ran along the lines of what a beautifully mysterious woman she was, how absolutely fearless she was, and how cold and brutal she obviously could be. The enigma that was Sarah Vhann utterly and completely fascinated him. She stared him down, not an ounce of fear or intimidation showing in her icy eyes.

Jess on the other hand, was just focused on breathing, to not break her cover under such dire straits, but it was immensely difficult. She didn't want to admit it, but she was intimidated by him. She did not show it, didn't even consider it in her mind because she knew that as soon as she did, the Sarah persona would fall away. Liberating, perhaps, but absolutely not desirable, especially since she was currently seated in the snake's nest, the lion's den, whatever euphemism for the very seat of evil she was currently trying to join the inner circle of.

Dmitri spoke after what must have been at least a few minutes of tension-laden silence. "I would like to meet up again to discuss a few finer points of this agreement."

It was Jess this time with the feral grin. "In the US this time. You come to me or no deal." It was a bit of a risk, but she needed time to gather evidence on US soil. Everything seen and heard by she and Andy was useful, but the sharks Kaskov would eventually hire as lawyers could rip it apart in two seconds if it was gathered outside the United States' jurisdiction. Even the International Court of Justice could find error with having two United States agents collecting evidence outside of their jurisdiction. The FBI and CIA would be sure to share the intel with the foreign governments it would involve, but Jess knew they would want as much evidence as possible to come from the US. It was an international cooperative, after all, which would probably result in a historical class-action suit against Kaskov by several countries.

Kaskov seemed to think it over for a moment. "We don't usually do that sort of thing."

Jess shrugged nonchalantly. "If you won't play ball, I'll find someone else who will."

Again, Dmitri was surprised by the lack of concern for anything else other than her own interests that Sarah had. She was _perfect_, for lack of a better word. Intimidating, fierce, mysterious, and incredibly beautiful. Dmitri wanted her the moment she walked into the room, and he knew he wouldn't have her _ever _if he refused the second meeting in the United States. Honestly, he didn't travel there very much. He much preferred living in his homeland, but if he had her stationed in the US, he was certain he'd be making more trips. He knew his mother, who was still very much a leader on the gang, would never approve. But Dmitri had the strangest feeling that his mother would like Sarah if she ever met her. An interesting urge to have Sarah, to tell his family that she was his, naggled at the back of his mind. Completely foreign to one such as him. He couldn't help but be drawn to her... this mysterious quality that drew him in...

"I suppose that could be arranged."

"Excellent," Jess said as she stood, not waiting for any sort of dismissal from him. She needed to keep her position of power. Hoping to at least somewhat intimidate, and to nurse this little crush she'd picked up on not to far along in their conversation, she rested her palms on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. "I look forward to doing business with you when I have the home field advantage," she whispered as close to his face as she could get. Her piercing blue eyes conveyed such cold allure, even well-seasoned criminal Dmitri felt the chill and knew to not mess with this woman.

**Meanwhile**

**Apartment of Det. Don Flack**

**New York City, New York**

Everything reminded him of her. Every single sight in New York City. Memories of her clung to every surface of the city. He couldn't look at them. Couldn't deal with them. The drinking dimmed his perception of everything, every perception of her that he wanted to erase from his mind, and at the same time never let go.

He wanted to forget, but he wanted to remember. He felt as if he was the only one who remembered her any more. Months had passed, and everyone went back to normal. Everyone stopped paying attention to the empty desk opposite his. Everyone at the lab went back to their normal lives. Lucy would never know her godmother. Don lamented every single thing that he'd never said to her, every opportunity that they'd missed, every thing that would never come to pass. A few months after her death, he'd started envisioning what their future child would look like. He kept imagining a little girl with Jess's smile, but his eyes, his mind conjuring up the epitome of all that he'd ever wanted, waving it tantalizing in his face before reality jerked him back into this never ending nightmare.

And Simon Cade. Simon fucking Cade. The man who took his angel away from him forever, and the way he saw it, his hopes and dreams, his _children..._ and yet, that gunshot rang in his mind louder and louder as each day went on. He murdered someone. Killed a man who wasn't putting up a fight. He became, for a split second in time, the very thing he had sworn to stop. And yet that split second changed everything. He didn't understand the utter guilt that tore apart his gut every time his picked up his gun. In his mind, he did not regret it, but the guilt came from the fact that he knew, without a doubt, that Jess would be _pissed._ That he'd abandoned all his morals and let his blood run red with rage and vengeance for a moment rather than blue with justice and restraint. In that moment, no amount of jail time could equate to everything Cade had destroyed with a single bullet.

Lindsay had taken his guns at the beginning, in what she thought would be his darkest days, but now that he was back to work, she'd given them back, hoping that the storm had passed after his few months of leave. What she didn't know is that those were not his darkest days. The darkest days were the ones where the shock wore off and the depression began to set in. When his mind came to the realization that Jess was really and truly gone, that the future they'd been so eagerly and happily planning would now never come to be. Those were the days that he would take his gun out of it's holster, but could never get the nerve to press the barrel to his forehead and pull the trigger. He would just sit on his couch, a drink in one hand and his gun in the other, staring listlessly at whatever channel he managed to flick on.

And that was where he sat now, minus the gun. An inordinately large number of empty beer bottles sat on the floor, and judging by the haziness that was overcoming his vision, it would not be long before he passed out. He thought about how pissed off Sam would be when she comes by his apartment tomorrow morning, like she'd begun to do every morning. He mused on the complete reversal of their situation- now, it was she who was tracking him down many nights, dragging him home while he was so drunk he could barely support his own weight, and waking him up in the mornings and forcing a gallon of coffee down his throat and making sure he got to work. He owed her big.

He knew what he was doing to himself was horrible. Knew it as well as anyone else did, but couldn't bring himself to care. The only thing he could think of was the black velvet box sitting in his bedside table drawer. The box he could barely bring himself to look at, knowing exactly what lay within.

His entire future. Gone.

And right now, that was the only thing that mattered to him.


	3. Fear

**Title: **Capsizing the Sea: Undercover Rewrite  
><strong>Author: <strong>Serena

**Summary:** Jess learns that her undercover operation will take her back to the city she left behind, and back in close proximity of the man she loves.**  
><strong>

**AN1: **I'm in the process of deciding whether or not to delete the original Undercover and The Days That Follow. They no longer fit into my new timeline, and 'Capsize' is taking over as the continuation of 'Warmness on the Soul'. I may keep them as another AU, but we'll cross that bridge...

**AN2: **Sorry for the update rift. Finals have taken a big toll. But, we're out for the summer now, and now it's just sports keeping me away from you. And if the storyline seems a tisch rushed right now is because it is. I'm in a hurry to get to the good stuff, and all this is exposition.

**AN3:** Mega-squee for the Flangell in the season finale :)

_CHAPTER III: Fear_

**What I mean is, we're afraid. Just stand still for an instant and there it is, this fear, covering our faces and tongues. If we stopped to take account of it, we'd just fall into despair. But we can't stop. We've got to keep going.  
>~~Colum McCann, <em>Let the Great World Spin<em>  
><strong>

**A small leak will sink a great ship.  
>~~Benjamin Franklin<strong>

**One week later**

**Lexington Estate Office, owned by Ceril Baffim**

**Midday**

**San Francisco, California**

The FBI had set up several fake aliases for Jess's fake alias. Jess found it quite amusing. One of which was Ceril Baffim of Canadian and Russian descent whose name was on the office she currently occupied. It was a small office- 'Sarah Vhann' worked alone. It consisted of Jess's 'office', a hallway, a conference room, and a supply closet. Again, it was quite small. Jess was happy she would not be inhabiting it for very long if everything went according to plan.

She heard a knock, and since she trusted Andy to keep out any threats, she called out, "Come in."

The door opened, and before her stood Dmitri Kaskov. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since their first encounter in Russia, and Jess boasted an easy confidence that she would be able to handle his subtle come-ons and intimidating presence. "Ah, Mr. Kaskov. Lovely to see you again."

He seemed mildly pleased by her greeting. "And you, Ms. Vhann. Or shall I call you Ceril Baffim?" Dmitri asked in his clipped Russian accent. It was almost unnoticeable.

She smiled wryly. "You've done your homework," she said before leaning back in her chair and waving a hand, "One of my many aliases. I imagine you can relate seeing as how you're on so many Most Wanted lists Osama Bin Laden would be absolutely green with envy," she stated, dry humor evident in her voice.

She read his body language like it was an open book- he was slightly intimidated by her, but she assumed it was because of her legendary (however fake) reputation in the criminal world. She could also see a look of appreciation in his eye as he eyed her slim form. It disgusted her slightly, but intrigued her at the same time. She decided then and there that as she had done a week ago in his office, she would milk this crush for all it was worth.

He puffed his well-muscled chest slightly, "He's not one to get envious of others."

Jess's brow rose, "Is that right?"

"Yes. I've met him several times," he added with a prideful smile.

Jess chuckled condescendingly, "You talk a big game, Kaskov. al Queda rarely interacts with people outside their organization."

She saw him deflate slightly, but he didn't let his disappointment at her calling his bluff show. "You know this how?"

"Call it first hand knowledge. I like having eyes and ears everywhere. Alas, its just not possible." She pursed her lips slightly. "I am not a particular fan of what they stand for, but their connections are extensive. I also don't appreciate any form of radical religion driving motives, especially one as peaceful as Islam."

Dmitri's eyebrows rose, finding himself completely blown away by her sense of morals. He resolved to ask her about it one day. He had a feeling if he asked outright at that moment, she would shut down. "Is that so?"

Jess's eyes iced over, jaw clenched, and leaned forward, presenting her coldest, and what was known as her most terrifying face. "Yes."

Dmitri didn't want to, but he felt a small bit of icy fear pool in his stomach. He was mystified at how a woman half his size could _scare _him. But Sarah Vhann scared him. Immediately, his interest in the woman grew exponentially. Never had someone affected him the way she had. Never. Not only was she stunningly beautiful with a slim figure, wavy, sandy blonde hair, and captivating dark blue eyes, but she possessed a mysterious quality about her that lured him in. He was determined to find a way to have her.

"You will be taking over the San Francisco chapter for now." _How convenient,_ she thought bitterly. She couldn't stand much longer in this cramped little office space.

She let her bitterness spill into her words, "San Francisco? You insult me, Dmitri. A less gracious woman would've gutted you by know," she said icily, purposely removing her switchblade from her belt and rolling the sharp blade between her fingers; her expertise with the blade was evident as the small hand tricks she was performing before his widened eyes required the utmost precision and concentration, lest you wished to lose a finger. She didn't even have to look at the blade as she did so.

Painfully drawing his gaze from the blade in her hand, he managed to meet her cold gaze once again. "Look, it's not up to me," he said smoothly, focusing his most alluring smile that had drawn many woman into his arms on Sarah, "If it were up to me, you'd already be co-running the Black Hand with me."

_Smooth, _she thought sarcastically. She maintained her cool, aloof persona. "You're saying you're a democratic gang leader?" She let out another condescending laugh. "How forward thinking of you."

He was disappointed that she remained immune to his charms. He seemed flustered, but only for a moment. "I'll get you up high as quick as I can, but it'll take some time."

Jess immediately flipped on her flirtatious side, seeking Dmitri's good graces (which she knew she was already in, considering the longing look in his eyes.) "You better step on it, big boy. I'm in pretty high demand right now." She stood from her office chair, walking around the antique cedar wood desk, and stood in front of his seated form, arms crossed. She quickly reverted to coolness, letting her natural intimidation take over. "I will not be looked down upon. If I cannot find what I want within your organization, I will find one that will bend to my will."

Dmitri looked upon the powerful woman, and had no doubts about her capabilities, or the fact that she would, without hesitation, leave his organization if she did not have enough power. Her reputation spoke for itself, and he desperately wanted her. He craved her like no woman ever had tempted him beforehand. He knew he had to have her. If the only way to do so was to keep her in his organization, he would do so.

"Understood. I think we will be able to work out a deal that is mutually agreeable to the both of us."

"Well then," she said, grinning widely, "start talking, Kaskov."

**Five months later**

**White Eagle Enterprises, front for the Black Hand**

**High rise office building, 87th Floor**

**Downtown Phoenix, Arizona**

Jess's and the FBI and CIA's expert and subtle manipulations led to her being quickly promoted up the ranks, and the fake emotional connection between Sarah Vhann and Dmitri Kaskov helped greatly in the slight inconsistencies with her leadership and the fact that many underlings were being arrested after she left a certain branch. Dmitri seemed to not notice it, though. Whenever he came around, she could turn on the charm, and he'd get that longing look in his eyes. She dreaded the day that he would try to make a move on her. She wasn't sure what she would do when that day came. If she refused him, she and the FBI would lose such precious leverage they had over him, and if she submitted, not only would she be cutting any and all ties with her sense of integrity, but in her eyes she saw it as she was betraying the man she truly loved, who was thousands of miles away, believing that she was dead. According to the FBI, the hospital had even allowed him to see her comatose body... he wouldn't have realized then that she was not actually gone. How her body had managed to stay alive without a machine breathing for her, without any form of support after such drastic and invasive surgery astounded her.

She now lead the entire West Coast chapter, and answered mostly directly to Dmitri himself, or the dim-witted leader of the national sector in New York City. (She'd thus far managed to avoid going to the city itself, but she was worried that she wouldn't be able to put off the return for much longer.) Five months into the operation, she and Andy had gathered enough damning evidence to obtain arrest warrants for over fifty thousand individuals, but they were mostly the grunts who did the 'dirty work' as Sarah often called it like delivering drugs, delivering weaponry, and so on. The government wanted her to aim higher, so she would damn well aim higher. The FBI and CIA would both be responsible for giving the evidence to state and local police so that they could deal with the smaller criminals the way they saw fit, with the stern warning to not make such mass arrests that would implicate Jess as an undercover and undeniably guarantee her execution.

Jess was sure she'd be moving up the gang leader-ladder sometime soon, that the position in Phoenix was a mere placeholder until Kaskov could work it out.

She was in her office in a large, modern high-rise building inside a business that was a mere front for money laundering for the Hand, and Andy was currently sweeping Jess's office for any listening devices. She heard him mutter, "Amateurs," as he pulled a pea-sized listening device from beneath a lamp shade.

Jess chuckled. "Can you bring it over here so I can disable it? I do not like having my conversations recorded for anyone to hear." Andy did so and continued his sweep, and Jess was certain he'd find more. She recognized the advanced model as a HepaTech 345-A, one of the most sensitive listening devices available. It was larger than some, but what it lacked in sleekness, it makes up for in what it records, as even phone calls can be picked up on. Jess sighed, as she began to pluck apart the tiny device. This was not a good sign if the gang decided to monitor her. Who knows what else they bugged, her phone, her apartment, her computer... she breathed slowly as she disabled the tiny woofer with a needle that allowed sound to be picked up, and then put the device back together. The CIA had shown her that trick- how to disable a listening device without letting the owner know that it had been disabled. The inner hardware was all working and functional, but one little malfunction in the microphone would allow absolutely no sound to be picked up.

He finished sweeping the room and found two more listening devices, which Jess quickly disabled as she had the first. "There might be others. We should go outside to call Mom," Jess said the last to words with no inflection, but it was their code phrase that they used that meant that they had to discuss the evidence that they gathered that day.

"I think that's a good idea."

Jess locked the broken listening devices in a desk drawer, and the pair walked to the elevator, where they would take the ride some 80 stories down and into the dry heat of the Arizona sun.

They wound up on a bench a few blocks from the building in a small green park, filled with happy families out for a stroll, one father and son pair flying a small purple kite, and a few young couples laid out on the grass sharing hushed, giddy conversations with elated smiles on their faces.

Jess's eyes were wistful as she gazed upon them. _How simple their lives are..._ she wished for and remembered dearly when her life was like that, when the future was nothing but a pleasant road unfolding before her feet. Not so much anymore.

She stared at the father, who was knelt on a knee next to his little boy, his hands gently showing him how to guide the flying kite through the breeze, and how to properly let out more string so his little kite would soar higher and higher. She saw the boy's elated smile, saw the father's proud grin, and could faintly hear across the distance, "I did it, Daddy! I did it!"

"You sure did, buddy."

Her mind's eye began to twist the image into a different one, transforming the young father in the park into a man with ice blue eyes that could hold such warmth, whose powerful presence was one of kindness and humor, and who would've become the best father any child could have hoped for.

Jess couldn't look at them anymore. "So," she began, plunging back into her undercover assignment with a vigor, trying in vain to get the image of _him_ out of her head, "I got my hands on the original expense reports going back from this year to 1995 for this company that definitively proves the money laundering, so we should be able to shut this baby down a little while after we leave. You?"

"You had a bit of a more productive day than me, I'm afraid."

Jess shrugged. "Even if you did, there's not much that can beat a Royal Flush," she stated wryly, proud of the evidence she'd obtained and replaced with pretty convincing replicas that she'd falsified herself. In a sense, kicking the rug over her pained reminiscence.

When he didn't respond, Jess looked at him seated next to her. His gaze was also trained on the pair that had enraptured Jess's attention moments ago. A sudden thought crossed her mind, and she didn't realized that she'd spoken it aloud, "What was your life like before?"

Her words didn't prompt an immediate response, which was not surprising. In the many months they'd been undercover, they'd never spoken of their lives before they'd met each other. Jess was all too happy to oblige, as she'd been focused on shoving away any reminders of a past that were too unbearably happy to deal with, but she hadn't really considered where Andy had come from, who he was missing. "Before?" he managed in a quiet voice.

"Before we both got dragged into this mess."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Jess kept her eyes on her undercover partner. She supposed many women would probably consider him attractive, but she only really saw one man anymore. He worried the gold band on his left ring finger that Jess had noticed long ago, but never asked about. An unspoken agreement, it seemed, to never ask about the other's past, which was apparently on hold right now. "My past isn't something I talk about all that often."

"Join the club."

He waited a beat, then said, "I had a wife, but..." he dropped off quietly, before saying, "What about you? You must've had some sort of life before the government swooped in."

Jess looked pointedly at him, masking her pain like she always did; she most certainly noticed his clever tactic of moving the focus to herself. "Does it matter? I'll never be able to go back to that life." Her voice was even, but her throat constricted painfully at the thought, but she refused to allow herself to wallow in misery.

"You never know. Maybe if this whole mission goes well..."

Jess managed a smile at Andy's awkward attempt to put their situation in a positive light. "I appreciate your optimism," she commented dryly.

Both of them noticed the way they skirted around giving an actual answer... and then Jessica's phone rang. The caller ID said it was Dmitri. She groaned, and then said, "I've gotta take this."

Andy waved his hand at her, "Go ahead."

She stood and walked a few feet away from her undercover partner. She breathed out, preparing to flirt with a man she had no feelings for. "Hey there, sailor."

She heard his chuckle over the line. _"Hey, Sarah."_

"So what's up?"

_"Come back to your office. We have some things we need to discus."_ He hung up after that. Jess snorted, muttering, "Charming."

She told Andy that she was headed back to her office, and he replied, "I can't come with. I have to drop off Evelyn at the airport." Another code phrase of theirs. _He has to make an evidence drop._

"Drive safe." _Be careful._

Andy didn't quite smile, but he came pretty close. "I will."

They parted ways, slightly hesitantly. She hated being away from him- the only person who would have her back no matter what might happen.

She rode the elevator to her floor in tense silence, standing at the very back of the elevator as other passengers filtered in and out. Jess closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall, fingering her switchblade hidden in her pocket. The cool metal eased her nerves, the smooth handle feeling perfectly smooth and almost as at home at her fingertips as a gun.

The elevator arrived at her floor, and she strode quickly to her office with the confidence and purpose of a seasoned crime lord. She arrived at her office, and putting on the smothering mask of Sarah Vhann.

Dmitri seemed to be in a hurry. "Hey, Sarah," he said quickly. It was probably one of the first times that he'd ever initiated a conversation.

Jess chuckled, not oblivious to his rushed state. "Where's the fire?"

He smiled slightly, and said, "New York." And with those words, Jess's tentative new existence came to a grinding halt. "You're being promoted. Head of operations, as you know, is in New York."

She was able to manage a normal sounding, "What's happening to Ilya?" Jess asked of the current leader.

Dmitri sighed, "He's becoming erratic, a risk. We're recalling him to Russia to... look at our options."

_In other words, most likely execute him._ Ilya must've done something pretty damnable for Kaskov to be recalling him from his post, which he'd occupied for a very long time.

"Erratic? You mean leaving a giant mess that lucky me gets to clean up?" Jess asked, not letting her discomfort show._ Not New York. Anywhere but New York._

Dmitri finally smiled full on the first time since he'd walked in. "I've learned you're exceptional at doing that sort of thing."

New York City. To put it lightly, the city was a constantly pulsing scar- a painful reminder of everything she'd lost, and everything that she'd hoped that she'd put behind her. Memories, trauma, and dangerous emotions were tied to nearly every building that encompassed the vast city. It was safe to say that Jess was internally panicking. Meanwhile, Sarah was grinning widely, her demure, frigid persona firmly in place. "I'm glad you are finally putting my talents to good use."

"Wouldn't want to have you running off on me," he said with a small smile.

They filled up a few minutes with small talk, and a few details about her move to New York. _Goddammit. _He left afterwards, probably off to deal with more implications with the San Francisco raids.

She waited ten seconds before she moved. Then, she coolly slid her chair out from beneath her desk, dropped down on her hands and knees underneath her desk, and found the vent. The vent that contained a few emergency provisions in case her cover was blown (it wasn't their only stash)- passports for several different countries, identification cards, various weaponry, enough money to keep two people off the grid for at least a few months... and a cell phone. A secure line cell phone that could call directly to her and Andy's commanding officer, Agent Reagan. Given with the admonishment _Use in extreme emergencies only._ In other words, if she was in danger of being compromised. She knew that this would apply.

She twisted the screws that held the vent in place with her switchblade, and set both vent and knife aside and reached into the ventilation shaft. Her hiding place was unoriginal, but functional. She reached in about two feet before she came into contact with the bottom of the shaft. Reaching to the left, she felt the locked box in which she kept the 'escape kit' as she so fondly called it. She easily dragged out the silver case, ad popped open the lock with the key she kept on a nondescript chain around her neck.

The phone was as plain-Jane as it could get, but she could care less at the moment. She withdrew the phone, replaced the case, and exited her office, not forgetting the incident with the listening devices. Once she was outside the building, she found Agent Reagan's number in the Contacts and called it.

It rang once. Maybe it was even half a ring. Jess would've made a crack about him not having much to do if that's how he answered his phone, but she was much too stressed to do any joking.

_"Agent? Is everything okay?"_

"Everything is most definitely not okay, sir." She quickly summed up what Dmitri had told her about becoming the head of operations of the entire US chapter in New York City.

Her superior was silent a few moments, and Jess wondered if the call had been lost, "Sir?"

_"Agent Angell, this is a major milestone. With an undercover as the head of-"_

Jess not-so-gently interrupted, "Need I remind you where you guys snatched me from? Where I was a detective of the New York Police Department? And that after my supposed 'death' my face was plastered over the news for weeks? And I still have very many friends in the police department who would probably recognize me in two seconds if I was anywhere near them."

_"Doubtful, Agent. Your death was very believable, most of them even saw your body-"_

"I don't care! Do you know how _hard_ this is?"

She heard him sigh. She knew he was a very sympathetic man, more so than Agent Reed. _"No, Agent, I don't know. All I can say in defense is that this is your mission. We told you the risks. You knew them. You trained for them. Now, all you need to do is use it. It is your duty to your country."_

She wished she could say 'screw my country', but the words tasted foul, even in her mind. Things said in the heat of the moment can rarely be the truth. It wasn't the country she was doing this for. More accurately, she was doing it for the people in it. A few specific people even. "You're right, sir. I apologize for speaking out of turn."

_"Don't worry about it, Agent Angell. Stay strong."_ And with that, their conversation was over.

She made her way back to her office in a fog. Numb. She slammed the door shut behind her as she entered her (soon to be empty) office, and let herself sink to the ground.

A heavy feeling settled over her, seeping into her pores, making her stomach heavy. As much as she hated it, would never admit it, not even to herself, Jessica Angell was afraid. Fucking terrified.

Her jaw was clenched, face perfectly blank, not betraying the storm that was brewing within her. Without thinking, she picked up the switchblade on her desk, and with an angry growl, hurled it at the wall. The silver blade flew through the air, blade spinning, and stopped abruptly when it was buried, almost to the hilt, in the plaster wall.

**Five days later**

**Apartment of Sarah Vhann**

**Room #45**

**New York City, New York**

She supposed the apartment was nice enough. One of the high-end places built in the affluent neighborhoods of the Upper East Side in some brand new high-rise with solar power, bamboo flooring, and high-quality sound baffling technology that would protect the precious residents from the everyday drivel that was the sounds of New York City. The apartment was outfitted in an array of blacks and whites, and she hated the stiff, impersonal feel to the stylish, current furniture. The only comfort was the fact that the entire wall that faced the city was thick glass. Her apartment was located on a corner, so the huge expanse of glass wrapped around the room on two sides. She loved the view of downtown. She could see clear across the river into Queens, and she suspected if smog wasn't an issue, she might be able to get a few glimpses of the state where she spent a big portion of her childhood- New Jersey.

She loved the view of the lively city, but bitter waves of nostalgia ripped through her as she looked out across the hundreds of skyscrapers that made up the greater downtown area of New York City. It physically pained her to think that Flack was out there, somewhere, and she couldn't see him. Be with him. Be anywhere in his general vicinity. Because everyone she knew believed that Jessica Angell was dead.

She stepped up to the thick glass, fingernails gently scratching across the transparent surface. Her introspect was interrupted by a knock. She knew exactly who it was before she even opened the door. The Russian gang leader seemed to be hanging around more and more lately...

"Mr. Kaskov, I'm finding these accommodations most pleasing." _Not really._

Dmitri stepped through the door. "I'm glad. My sister picked it. She thought you'd approve."

Jess raised a brow. "Really? The mighty Svetlana Kaskov picked out _an apartment _for the measly Sarah Vhann?" _Interesting. The sister is more involved than I thought... put a pin in that, Angell._

Dmitri chuckled. "You underestimate yourself. You've become very valuable to us." He paused, thinking,_ and to me._ He didn't voice it. "Which is why I wanted to talk to you. see the Hand has a tradition of giving our higher level leaders tattoos on the back of their necks." He turned away from her, gesturing to the back of his neck. Jessica examined the tattoo, which was, surprisingly, not a hand at all. A winding snake, slightly reminiscent of Ben Franklin's 'Join or Die' cartoon, wrapped in on itself close to Dmitri's hairline.

The art itself was lovely, but Jess wanted to wretch at the thought of having a permanent mark of the Black Hand inked into her skin. "Awesome," she said, not lying in her reaction to the beautiful tattoo. "You guys must have a really talented artist under your belts."

Dmitri turned back around with a smile. "Yeah, he's done some amazing work. I trust him a lot," he said, rolling up a sleeve and exposing his forearm, and a part of the tattoo sleeve that probably covered his entire arm. She noticed the Russian words for 'Family' and 'Loyalty,' along with a myriad of flowers, a spiderweb, and the face of a woman who Jess assumed was Svetlana surrounded by a frame of thorns.

The inner tattoo lover that rarely came out couldn't help but gasp, and impulsively grab his arm to examine the tattoos closer up. She immediately noticed what she was doing as she was tempted to run her fingers over the inked skin, and jumped away quickly as if electrocuted. "I'm sorry. I can get a little over-enthusiastic about tattoos."

Dmitri was about to voice his approval, but a phone ring cut him off. He winced and answered. A hushed 'yes' and then an aggravated, 'Get legal on it.' He hung up the phone with an unnamed passion. There was a question in Jess's eyes. "There are massive raids going down in San Fran. The guy I put in there after you... he might be feeding intel to the cops. I can't believe I put a defect there after you."

Jess manages to stay calm, knowing that it was actually she and Andy who were the cause of those raids. Jess gritted her teeth, allowing Sarah to respond calmly and coolly, "I refuse to get my hands dirty," she said, referring to the inevitable execution of the new SF chapter head, "But I have several connections that might be able to at least partially get us out of this mess."

Dmitri smiled sadly, but somewhat flirtatiously, "And here I was thinking you had eyes and ears everywhere."

Sarah grinned back, milking this little crush he'd developed for her for all it was worth, "Even a woman of my stature has her limits," she pulled back a bit, resuming her business tone, "But I digress. The SFPD wouldn't be performing these arrests unless they had some pretty damn good evidence. Even if my people can somehow tamper with it, they've probably got witnesses, sworn affidavits. Even if we get the witnesses out of the picture, those affidavits will stand in court. And what's worse, no matter how good a legal team we've got, we can't discredit a dead witness on cross," she finished wryly.

As he always was, Dmitri was damned impressed by her prowess in the criminal element. Throughout the past months that she'd worked for the Hand, he'd started to have stronger and stronger feelings for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed American. He couldn't help but want to spill his heart out to her whenever they spoke. The Black Hand was entering turbulent times, and he felt like he would need Sarah Vhann at his side to weather the storm... "I feel like I can't trust anyone in my organization any more." He ran a nervous hand through his hair, and Jess smiled inwardly while Sarah's face was blank. That had been her plan from the very beginning, alienate Dmitri Kaskov from everyone in his massive organization, at least in the US chapter, and make him feel as though she was the _only_ person he could trust. As his confidante, she could gain valuable intel and evidence that she could present to the FBI and CIA. It seemed her expert manipulations were working.

"I've been there. Who in particular? I can get some trusted people watching their every move. Just say the word."

Dmitri sighed. "Thank you. That means a lot to me, but I'll decline. It's just a gut feeling."

"In my experience, sometimes your gut is the best evidence to go on."

He seemed to openly contemplate her words for a few moments. "I suppose so."

"From what I've seen," Jess began gently, hoping to pry into this doubt that had spawned, "most people in criminal organizations are always making plans to somehow seize power..." She pushed herself to her limits, openly touching his shoulder and squeezing gently. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He looked up at her. Her dark blue eyes were so enchanting, so open, so trustworthy, he suddenly had the urge to spill his heart out to her. "Yeah, it's just tough. I never wanted this life. It's just that my dad got sick, and I'm the oldest... my sister Svetlana is much more cut out for this work than I am," he said weakly.

Jess was taken aback. Here was one of the most feared gang leaders _in the world_ admitting a weakness to her. Openly. She saw no hints of dishonesty on him. "I didn't know your sister was so involved," she stated quietly.

"You remind me a lot of her, actually," he commented, unprompted.

She let Sarah smile good-naturedly, "How so?"

"She's not afraid of anything, she's smart, cunning, cold and calculating and absolutely vicious when she needs to be. But get to know her and she's one of the nicest people you'll meet. You have her trust and you'll have an ally for life." He paused, "I kept telling Dad that she should be the one to take over. I'm no good at the logistics. I've got no problem being the muscle. I just wish I had the brains to back it up," he said with a wry smile.

_Svetlana Kaskov. _She'd definitely remember to mention Svetlana in her next report to the FBI as someone else they may have to take down in order for the gang to fracture completely. As much as she or any world authorities were aware, the other Kaskov children were merely bystanders while Dmitri was the ultimate head who would, in the end, have the final say in any and all gang-related matters, and would ultimately not give up his power unless forced to do so. Seeking to stoke his ego, she answered, "You don't seem to be lacking in the brains category, Dmitri."

He chuckled, seeming to enjoy the compliment. "You obviously haven't seen me trying to coordinate product shipments before, or even trying to decipher what the _hell_ our financial adviser is telling me."

Jess managed to choke out a laugh along with him, her mind too focused on the word _products. Drugs... slaves... firearms..._ but her evidence-seeking mind quickly saw an opportunity. "If you ever need someone _not _lacking in the brains category to figure stuff out, you know where to find me."

**At the same time, across the city**

**12th Police Precinct**

**Main Conference Room**

**New York City, New York**

Chief of Detectives, Brigham Sinclair stood before a congregation of every single functioning department of the NYPD with information of vital importance. "Thank you all for gathering here today. Organized Crime has brought a piece of information that could potentially affect every single one of your departments." Murmurs of curiosity and concern fluttered throughout the large room for a few moments before Sinclair spoke again. "This department is well aware of the goings on in the Black Hand, but we now have evidence that the leader of the United States branch of the gang has been replaced."

There was another ripple of dissident, and louder this time. Every single officer, every single detective, every captain was painfully aware of the Russian gang in their city. The former leader was a younger man, a Russian immigrant called Ilya Korpov, whose blunder-some nature led to several busts of drugs and illegal weaponry from the gang, but nothing they could definitively tie to the man or the gang. What he lacked in cunning he more than made up for in violent retaliation. He was the driving force behind the publicly televised slaughtering of five undercover police officers, and the message had its desired affect. Every single bust of Black Hand product was as celebrated as it was feared, as the police department would endure the nightmarish foreboding as they awaited the violent and over-the-top retaliation that would certainly follow.

"This new leader is rumored to be a woman by the name of Sarah Vhann." Hushed murmurs went throughout the room. Rumors, with little or no evidence supporting them, had spread about the cataclysmic rise of the now-powerful gang leader. If rumors were true, the powerful woman had been everywhere a criminal possibly could be, had broken countless federal and state laws, and most shocking, she was never caught or held for a single one of her crimes. Her legacy began to spread in the earlier 2000's as a criminal who was always about five steps ahead of those pursuing her. Dark whispers said that in nearly every police agency she had a dirty cop working for her. "I know we have all heard the rumors, but we have yet to get any evidence as to who this woman is and any information into her life as it is. All we can tell you is that she's either Russian or American. We don't even have a picture to show you. Everyone, squeeze your CI's 'til they bleed, work every line of communication you've got, use up every favor you're owed to find out whatever you can about her." Sinclair paused briefly, "We need to stop this disaster before it starts. Understood?"

**Next chapter: **The city of New York holds many painful experiences for Jess. A trial of heart and mind will demonstrate true cruelty, and leaves our two undercover agents in the fray.****  
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